


All My Idols are False (the Gunslinger Extraordiniare Mix)

by angelgazing



Category: Firefly
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-25
Updated: 2010-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/pseuds/angelgazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's never been a point in a boy's life that he thinks of as defining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Idols are False (the Gunslinger Extraordiniare Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victoria_p (musesfool)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/gifts).
  * Inspired by [False Idols](https://archiveofourown.org/works/65567) by [victoria_p (musesfool)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p). 



"—And ask yourselves this, brothers and sisters—when the time comes, when there is a choice to be made, ask yourselves this—if God is with us, who can stand against us?"

 

\---

 

The church walls are thin, like the walls of the barn where they keep the horses; the paint outside is peeling, in long strips of white that they all take turns pulling on when it's late in the afternoon and their mommas are still huddled together, talking about things no one else has got an interest in anymore.

But inside it's warm, spring sun slipping in through the windows, and there's a draft that makes the lace on the bottom of Jennie Swanson's dress rustle against her pale calves, makes the lace seem like it's winking at him. That's what Mal watches, when it's rounding up on noon and there're chores to be done later and the preacher ain't saying nothing he's wise enough to listen to yet.

His momma sits beside him in her blue dress, her hair pulled back and her bible in hand. She murmurs, quietly, "Amen, amen, amen."

 

\---

 

There's never been a point in a boy's life that he thinks of as defining. There's never been a moment for any one of them, and Mal Reynolds is no different, when summer's peeking around the corner, and racing fifteen for the thrill of the win. He sits on the fence, sweating through his shirt, his hands rough and the back of his neck turned red from the sun already.

Jack ain't never been nothing but the man worked on his momma and daddy's farm. Ain't never been more than a ranch hand here or a ranch hand there. He runs the horses in the afternoon, and Mal watches, sometimes, when the barn's cleaned up, the eggs are gathered and feed is out. Jack's never been nothing else, and he turns to Mal and smiles, with a gap in the front from being on the wrong end of a fight or a mule, and he says, "Boy, this is it. Look around you now, 'cause things is building and this is who you're gonna be forever now. You ain't seen nothing yet, but enjoy it while you can—the 'verse is right on your heels."

TMal don't really understand, but he laughs when Jack does, figuring the heat's finally done and got to ol' Jack. There's grass around his ankles and cows mooing in the background. He thinks it'd be alright—this forever. Ain't nothing else he'd rather be doing. The sky is cloudless, and there ain't an end in sight.

 

\---

 

"Malcolm Reynolds," his momma says with a shake of her head, her fingers gripping tight on the handle of a wooden spoon. She's making stew again tonight, even though it ain't the weather for it, and the smell of it makes his mouth water before he's even stepped in the door. "Don't be making a mess on my floors, or you'll be cleaning it up with your teeth. You take your shoes off right there."

"Yes, ma'am," Mal mutters, like he ain't just dying to say something else. Never been a time when saying it got him nowhere though. Ain't never been a time when saying much of all got any man someplace with his momma. Hell, his daddy probably took a vow of silence 'stead of the usual things when time came for their wedding.

He takes off his shoes, and his momma swats him with her spoon any damn way; it don't hurt, just gets his attention. Just lets him know his momma's still got a troublin' ability to read his mind. There's a smile quirking at the corners of her mouth, and he ducks his head to hide his grin.

"Boy, don't think I cain't hear all those things you're just itching to say. Say it all right there on your face anyhow," she says, turning back to the stew. Her hair is falling down, into her face, and the pants she's wearing need help stayin' hitched up 'cause they used to be his daddy's.

Mal opens his schoolbook on the table, working through numbers like they mean something, and his momma hums songs that they sing in church every Sunday under her breath. She sits down a clay mug of milk, fresh just the way it should always be, and puts her hand on his hair. She don't tell him he needs a haircut, and he curls his fingers round the mug same way his daddy curls his fingers round his coffee in the morning.

There's a lot a grace in this house, his momma said once, and he thinks of it now, as she sings hymns he can't remember the names of and lights the oven despite the heat.

 

\---

 

Summer ain't never what you expect it to be. It's either shorter or longer or harder. Summer Mal turns fifteen is just summer. Just the same as every summer before, mending fences and breaking colts and doing all his usual chores besides.

They lose some sheep and spend damn near fourteen hours chasing the folk who took 'em. He and his Daddy and even Jack. It only takes that long 'cause his daddy's got a knee don't always work like it should and it makes walking slow. Mal's got a shotgun in his hands and adrenaline rushing through him, singing through his veins the way that lust does, when he sneaks down to the pond that borders 'tween their place and the Swanson's and finds Jennie there in short dresses, bare from the waist up, hair down with the sun in it, and feet in the water. He can't ever find a way to get closer or a way to leave.

Sheep are easily enough to find in the summer, though, even when the grass is waist high and browning in the sun. There'll be an extra crop of hay this year, but the money it'll bring ain't gonna cover the extra they'll need to water the cows and the crops it don't start raining soon. But his daddy says you can't get everything they ask for. They do find the damn sheep though, huddled up hairless, munching weeds in the corner of someone's backyard.

The shudders on their windows are falling off the hinges, and there's a kid outside on the step that's maybe five years old, eating half a sandwich, watching the animals make noises she probably ain't never heard. There's a dog at her feet, panting, ribs showing through with what's probably age.

Thing about small little moons like theirs is that you know the names of all your neighbors and you know their stories. Girl's momma died, something 'bout a horse who bucked her—though there been rumors 'bout the feds ain't never made much sense—daddy don't know his own name from the bottle he keeps all the time. Brother's eight and trying to be more of man than he should ever be expected.

"Alright," his daddy says, his voice rumbling and rough. Way it always is when he talks, 'cause he don't do that unless he _means it_. "We found 'em," he says, and puts his broad hand on Jack's shoulder, 'cause Mal's done got his gun pointing downwards, but sometimes Jack still needs to be told what to do. "Now's time to tend to what we got left."

"Things are hard, boy," Jack says, on the long walk back. Mal's the only one who can hear him, the distance 'tween them and his daddy's so great. "But they ain't gonna get any easier. You'd do good to remember that."

 

\---

 

Purgo hits six foot three with a swagger and cockiness round his skinny shoulders. Mal don't much notice, 'cause they both know who'd better the other it came down to a fight. Purgo smiles wide like he ain't got a care in the world. His hands ain't rough from nothing when he hits Mal's shoulder with his palm and says, "Jennie's grown up a lot ain't she?" with a wink that ain't nothing but lechery.

Mal laughs, a flush at his cheeks he don't like none at all, and keeps his eyes on his plate. The preacher's still preaching, even though there ain't no one still listening, just 'cause he likes to make 'em wait for what they want. Says with a belly laugh when you it's to show 'em there's good things at the end, if you just hold out long enough.

There's food and gossip and kiddies shrieking with laughter and crying all over in the background, running around the churchyard like a bunch of space monkeys with too much ice cream. There ain't no controlling the situation, and summer's coming up on a close, again, no matter how much he keeps on thinking it shouldn't.

Heat ain't gone yet though, and his stiff collar makes the back of his neck itch something fierce. Purgo's got his sleeves rolled up, and Mal hates him, just a little, 'cause he ain't got a momma that don't believe in doing nothing less than Sunday best for church, even afterwards, picnicking under a tent.

"Look at the things before us," the preacher says, his thick neck turning red with heat and his face red with passion for what he's saying. Ain't never been a man looked like that didn't believe in what he was saying. Ain't never been a man looked like that didn't get the whole damn place to quiet and listen to his words. "Look around you and see. We're all the same here. We are all God's children, you are my brother, and you are my sister, and I am your brother and we are all blessed. Do you know? Can you see? You are blessed by God; I am blessed by God; and so are you and you and you. We are all blessed by his love. Now ask yourselves: are you worthy?"

"Amen, amen, amen," his momma says, quietly, the same damn thing she always says when the preacher's doing his job and she's got her fingers wrapped so tight 'round the cross at her neck the imprint might just stay with her 'til next week.

 

\---

 

"It was quiet," he tells Jennie, when she puts her hand on his arm and leans forward. Purgo's in the back somewhere, probably picking at cold apple cobbler with Barnes, making comments 'bout the guests Mal would normally get to hear. He ain't heard much of nothing for days. "We're takin' it as a blessing."

Mrs. Swanson is a hard woman, bird-like with her beak nose and her thin, pinched mouth. She looks sour, and she yells at him least once a week for lettin' his horse forage in the garden she keeps in back where their properties meet. They all know it ain't his horse's doin', but part of friendship is knowing when to keep your mouth shut, and part of parenting is apparently knowing when to not see what's obvious. She pushes a pie into his momma's hands, and her features don't soften for a second.

"I'm sorry," Jennie says, and he don't know for what she means.

His pants are too short now, 'cause he hit a growth spurt couple months back. He can't look Purgo in the eye yet, but he figures the day is coming. His wrists peek out the cuffs of his best Sunday shirt. There's a draft, like autumn sweeping in sudden like, because schools back soon and his daddy's died and Mal's done grown up much as he can. This is a time for endings.

 

\---

 

Barnes is bookish like none of the rest of them are. Spends nights on the Cortex reading 'bout everything in the 'verse even when he ain't gotta. He's short, thick around his middle, hair always falling down into his eyes, and it's never been clear to none of them why it is he and Purgo get on so well. Ain't nothing they got in common 'cept they both get redder than a tomato if they spend too much time in the sun.

One thing's always been clear is Purgo, with his wide arms and bad jokes and charm, keeps Barnes from any number of moments could've caused him trouble otherwise.

Barnes comes to school wearing a brown coat, and no one knows why, but Purgo does it too. And then everyone starts paying attention.

"Thing is," Barnes says, chewing his apple on the side of his mouth so he can talk at the same time, "the 'verse hasn't seen a thing like this yet. Alliance coming in and changing all the rules, all the laws that each town has set to fit their own? It can't work. They can't make us all like them. Way out here, we'd see all the bad and none of the good. There's not a choice at all."

Mal don't pay much attention to politics. He wears the same coat he always has, and goes home to help his momma out, 'cause since daddy's gone he and momma and Jack combined can't seem to pick up all the things that used to be his, and they're still laying off extra hands right and left, 'cause they can't afford to keep 'em anymore than they can afford to let them go.

He goes home, and he does what he's got to. That's what he never had a choice about.

Purgo and Barnes keep wearing their coats, and they keep an eye to the sky, just in case. The year keeps going on just like it always has.

 

\---

 

All the sleeves on Mal's shirts are too short, and he was almost sure that he was done with growing all together.

'Tween school and chores he don't got time for nothing but dinner, his bed and the bath. So when he wakes up one morning to find shirts that used to hang in his daddy's closet folded and stacked neatly on his desk, he don't pause to question.

They still don't fit. Shoulders are too tight. But they'll do as well as what he had before.

 

\---

 

His momma sings hymns while she works, as they walk through the barn, making sure the horses is fed.

Mal pours water from a bucket into a trough and his momma sings about one day flying away.

 

\---

 

"We walk through these days, through these nights—we walk through this _life_—and every moment, God is with us. God is with us, in the morning, and throughout the day. He shares in our joys, in our disappointments, in our grief."

Mal sits, face to the front, ears perked. He's got his momma's bible in one hand, her fingers gripping the crook of his elbow. She's rapt as always whispering, _believing_ so fiercely that you can't help but get caught up in it.

Jennie sits two rows up, between her parents. She starts to cough and it's like she's never gonna be able to stop.

"And lo, I will be with you always, even to the end of the age," the preacher says, his voice dropping so suddenly that Mal leans forward, just so he don't miss anything. "And lo," he repeats, "I will be with you always, even to the end of the age."

"Amen," Mal whispers quietly, "amen."

 

\---

 

Mal spends the day he turns sixteen shearing sheep with Jack. He gets back to the house late, after the horses are fed and watered, and the cows are counted and the fence is checked, and the sheep are down to skin. There's a calf gonna drop soon, and Mal's on duty keeping an eye out 'cause it ain't nothing but a bad omen when they're this late.

His momma don't greet him at the door, but there's a pie on the table and a note says it's all for him, and it's better than most things just for that.

He's halfway through his second piece when his momma comes in, sighing. The floor boards creak under her feet, and Mal's not the kind of man can't note that her bones creak more than they used to. She puts her hands on his shoulders, and she don't say nothing 'bout him needing a haircut, just presses a kiss to the top of his head like she ain't done in years.

"I know things been hard lately," she whispers, her voice rough with sleep. "I know there ain't nothing been easy since your daddy's gone."

He opens his mouth—to protest, to agree, to change the damn topic from the one they ain't yet touched on—but he knows well enough. Reminds himself again that words ain't gonna get him nowhere with his momma.

"You're a good boy," she says, like she's fighting back tears she never let him see before. "You're such a good boy, Malcolm. You're a good _man_. And don't you think for a second that your daddy weren't damn proud of you. Don't think for a heartbeat he ain't up in Heaven right now damn proud of you. I know it ain't said. I know you ain't ever been more for words than he was, but I never imagined I could be more happy to call you my son than I was the day you was born. You understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mal answers, and nods. But she's still got her hands on his shoulders behind him, and he ain't turning to look. His pie is heavy in his stomach, and he ain't got the slightest idea why. "I understand."

"Good." His momma kisses him again, and he hears rustling after her hands disappear, but he still don't look back. She hooks her necklace 'round his neck, the cross that ought to be embedded to her bone by now, number of times she's clutched it, is heavy and cool against his heart. "You enjoy your pie, now, and don't forget that Elsie's 'bout to pop that one out. We ain't there on time, likelihood is we lose 'em both."

"Yes ma'am," Mal answers, but by then she's creaking back up to bed.

 

\---

 

"Thing is," Mrs. Kim tells his momma, in a way that's a whisper like cows are all knowing, "Alliance stopped the shipment. Got it held up four moons over, 'cause they ain't _inspected_ it yet and ain't gonna have no one up there for couple months now, since their men are all tied up in the war."

His momma tsks loudly, her hair up in a bun and her dress cleaned to perfection spite the fact that she's worked harder'n sin last two weeks. They both have.

Mal ain't nowhere near, and he can hear every word. Purgo is quiet, for once, and Barnes keeps his head bowed and his lips pursed. It's coming up end of summer again, but Mal figures he's done for school anyway. His momma can't pull the work like she did last year, she just ain't admitted it yet.

Jennie ain't stopped coughing going on three months now, and Purgo's sitting with his hand on her back like that'll soothe it or something, when it ain't before. They sit around, in the churchyard, and they listen to the same sounds as always.

Someone from the choir starts singing, and his momma starts humming along like she always does. Like she can't _stop_, when it's this song or that one and she's got God and Jesus keeping her strong.

Topic change don't change truth at all though, and they all know that ain't gonna keep away much longer. Jennie's dying and Alliance ain't gonna let her meds through 'cause Purgo's daddy owns just enough of this moon to keep 'em off it even when they _are_ wanted here.

Mal thinks of Jack, he thinks of things Jack don't talk about now that all the other folks do. He wonders if this is who he's gonna be forever.

 

\---

 

They never come. Meds never make it to harbor. Alliance, if they released 'em, didn't bother trying to keep other hands out. It's gone before it gets to them, like they knew it would be. By that time ain't no one still has a hope at all that Alliance'll come through with anything.

Mal stands shoulder to shoulder with Purgo, Barnes on the other side so they bookend him. Like protection. And maybe it was never love and they was never gonna get married, but Mrs. Swanson could say it all day and Purgo would never believe it.

Jennie don't look like his daddy did—doesn't look like she's just sleeping. She was stick thin, shrunken with sickness and waiting, and she is now, lying there like she's never been nothing more than bones. Her momma won't stop crying, weeping loudly, "My baby, my baby," and it's so unlike anything his momma would ever do that Mal is blindsided and skittish.

Her parents sold everything they owned tryin' to get her better, but ain't nothing short of a ride to a core planet would've cured her, and ain't no one going there gonna come out to this place middle of wartime.

The church is packed with people, the whole town huddled together into one room to mourn. To see, finally, the first real consequence they've suffered from what's going on in the rest of the 'verse.

It's autumn outside, the sun shining brightly on leaves that're dead and dying. It ain't rained in weeks and it ain't gonna now. Don't matter 'bout the sun, or that the air ain't that cool yet. Everybody wears a brown coat now.

 

\---

 

Winter ain't never been easy. Best of times winter's a challenge. But it snows on the first day of November, and it don't stop 'til March.

Everything they are is huddled up and trying to just get through.

All anyone does is work to survive.

 

\---

 

There's things they know is coming, but they don't talk about 'em. Mal knows and his momma knows and Jack knows, and they try to pretend they can all still make it through. 'cause slowly and surely the stash of coin his momma's always kept in the can of coffee beans has been dwindling since long 'fore his daddy died.

Winter is hard and there's hard choices to be made.

His momma sells a piece of land—the piece near the pond, where Jennie used to bathe in the sunlight with her dress 'round her waist, and where Purgo, his head in her lap, used to watch the way that she breathed, and Mrs. Swanson nearly threw a damn duck at Mal for things she claimed his horses did to her tomatoes.

It ain't enough, but they're gonna try their damnedest to go on and get by.

\---

 

Dress his momma wears has flowers all over. Tiny blue ones that look like they're blossoming toward the sky. She presses his wrist when he fidgets, like she used to when he was just a boy, to make him pay attention.

"This is not a time for the weak-willed. This is not a time for those without faith. This is the very definition of adversity, my friends. This life is our test; these times are our trials. Those of weak will, they bend beneath that which is not holy. Could you stand up and say that you are not one of them? Would you look the devil in the eye? What would you see if you could? Would it be safety, or perhaps comfort? Or would you look in the devil's eyes and see only the devil? This is not a time for those without faith, for those without God to walk with them through this moment and the next one."

"Amen," his momma says, her fingers automatically reaching for a necklace he wears now. "Amen, amen."

"Brothers and sisters, now is the time for faith. When you've got nothing else, when you've got every reason for doubt: _then_, is the time for faith. Remember, at these times, Romans 8:31: If God be for us, who can be against us? If God is for us, who can dare to stand against us?"

 

\---

 

Day it happens they all knew it was only a matter of time. They were waiting for it, quietly. They come back from church, his momma, Jack and him, and the Feds is waiting on the porch, head to toe in body armor and battle gear.

"You boys want a cup of tea?" his momma asks, her thumb pressed damn tight 'gainst the butt of the gun she's got pointin' toward the ground. She ain't never shot no one, but Mal got no doubt she could without a slip at all. Easy as can be. The gun's cocked and loaded.

"Mrs. Reynolds," the Fed says, like he's reading off a paper and not noticing her at all. "I'm General Gerald D. Fillman, and I'm here to inform you that under sanctions imposed during wartime, I am able to take from you the land that you won't sell to us."

His momma don't drop her weapon, and the General don't bother to notice she's holding it at all. Her church dress flutters behind her in the breeze.

"I'd recommend that you take the payment we've offered you for those ten acres. And you've got thirty seconds to do it in."

"Boy," she says, "Go on and change out of your Sunday clothes and then go find Jack. You two need to move the sheep in with the calves for the time being." Mal don't move, so she looks over, cocks her eyebrow like she ain't used to being disobeyed. "Go on then, hurry."

 

\---

 

After the sheep are moved, and the chores are done, his momma starts fixing supper and Mal sends a couple of waves. The preacher's voice is still in his head, still loud and clear. And Mal can't help but remember, can't help but think.

He's got God on his side; he's just doing the very best that he can. He's just doing the only thing that he can.

"Momma," he says, later, and has his chin held high. "I gotta do this thing."

"Of course you do, boy," she answers, with her voice thick. She cups his face in hands that're covered in flour and brings his head down to press a kiss to his forehead. "Of course you do."

 

\---

 

Purgo shows up with his arm slung 'round Barnes' shoulders, a bottle of wine clutched in his fist. "Ma'am," he says, nodding at Mal's momma with something damn near reverence. He's spoke to her that way since she gave him a piece of peach cobbler 'bout a year after his own momma died. "I got a wave seemed to imply that this was the night for a going away party."

"I don't—"

"Sure is," Mal's momma says, interrupting his protests. Barnes is red-faced already for reasons Mal ain't sure of. "So long as he don't get home too late. Gotta get a good breakfast in 'im 'fore leaving for the station, after all."

"Can't have a hero rushing off to war with an empty belly." Purgo grins. That grin that made Jennie go all moony-eyed for him. That grin that got him out of a thousand different troubles should've been rained down on him. "We'll take very good care of our boy."

"See that you do." Mal's momma smiles too, and the lines at the corners of her mouth are startling to see.

 

\---

 

Madam Mercury's is a place everybody knows, but nobody talks about. Ain't your Alliance sanctioned place. Ain't got a license or nothing, but the Sheriff's wife is in charge of the girls and that's enough for every damn body in town to know.

Rumor has it Sheriff gives out nights with a girl as a bonus, you capture the right felon.

Mal almost don't know why they're there. All the way doesn't know what he's doing while he's there, when Annabelle straddles his waist, her skirts tickling his thighs and her breast in the palm of his hand. He don't know nothin' 'bout her but the name she gives. Her hair is dark as sin and her skin is smooth. Her mouth is like fire over his, and that's mostly all that he remembers through the haze of alcohol.

He stumbles out of the whorehouse with her scent still clinging to every part of him. His clothes smell like girly perfume, incense and tea. He's got their little town, God and Purgo at his side, and Mal smiles, slow and drunk with wine, as Purgo throws an arm around his shoulder and hauls him close. "Remember this night, young Malcolm," he says, grinnin' like an imp. "This is the night you became a man."

Barnes is squished close to Purgo's other side, and as they walk their brown coattails flap in the breeze they make. "We should do something," Barnes says, "to make sure he doesn't forget."

"Ah, that, my man, is a fantastic idea." And there ain't nothing 'bout Purgo's voice leaves any doubt that Barnes said just the right thing. "Let's all get inked!"

Ain't nothing but cheap wine and good company makes it seem like a good idea. But there's alcohol humming through his veins and he loves this town, this moon, this whole damned 'verse so much his heart just might burst, and it seems to Mal that he ain't never heard a better idea.

"Like this," he says, when they're in and his pants are open and he's lying on a cold table. He pulls his momma's cross out from under his shirt, leaves it lying on his chest so she can keep on seeing it. "Think you can do it?"

"Don't go doubting me, boy." Mrs. Swanson's got her stern voice on, like she ain't got any other. She looks at him over her needles like she ain't gonna make this easy on him at all. Mal, being stone drunk, don't much mind.

"Now, Mrs. Swanson," Purgo cuts in, cuts the damn tension right in half with his grin. "You gotta be nice to Malcolm tonight."

"And do a good job," Barnes tells her. "Our boy's shipping out tomorrow, gonna fight those _qingwa cào de liúmáng_ from the Alliance."

Mrs. Swanson's scowl don't lessen, does the opposite in fact. Her mouth gets more pinched, her eyebrows lower more'n even seems possible. "Half-price for you, son," she says, finally, with her eyes dark as Annabelle's hair. "You give 'em what for, and I'll make sure you got damn fine ink on ya while ya do it."

"That's a deal, ma'am." Mal nods, his arms crossed behind his head, and smiling wide. He's got God on his side, and he's got alcohol in his veins and he ain't feeling no pain.

"You other boys thought 'bout what yer gettin'?" she asks, gruffly.

"Jennie," Purgo says, and drops his grin for the first time all night. His fingers hover almost uncertainly above his shoulder. "Right here."

 

\---

 

Army ain't what he expected. War ain't it either. Not by a long shot. Everything's a blur of bullets and blood, victory and the crushing blow of defeat. He loses everything, after Serenity.

Everything.

He goes home to find his momma died, his friends moved away, Jack's working for Purgo now, 'cause Purgo's daddy left him half the damn moon, and the farm that shoulda been Mal's besides. It don't much matter though, after everything Alliance has done nothing'll grow. Whole planet'll be dead in a year.

He goes back to church once, just after. When he's got wounds still healing and just enough left in 'im to hope that maybe he was wrong.

The preacher don't recognize him, and the crowd is smaller than it's ever been before. Mal sits in the back, and he can't listen to a word the preacher's saying for the way his head's screaming that everything's a lie.

He leaves his necklace sitting on the stone above his momma's grave in place of a pebble. He don't apologize, though there's something in him wants to. He don't say nothing at all.

Annabelle's in the same place she was before, and her thighs spread for him like she'd just been waiting all this time. When her fingers pass over the black lines on his hip he shudders 'cause he can't stand to know it's still there.

 

\---

 

He gives it the weekend, then looks up Zoe. It ain't hard, but mostly just 'cause she makes it easy. They stick together 'cause they figure (silently, to themselves) that it's the only way to survive.

And Mal ain't had a moment in his life when there weren't a woman stronger than him right by his side.

 

\---

 

Thing is, he saw his ship and he _knew_ she was for him. Knew it in his bones.

He tells Zoe this, when it comes time for the naming, and that's the only damn thing he tells her, when her mouth gets tight and she shakes her head. She's just like the big brother he ain't never had though, so she knows it anyhow.

Serenity Valley took everything away, but this ship—she's gonna give it all back.

"Serenity," Zoe says, and cocks her head. "Best thing about her so far, Sir."

"Oh, just you wait," Mal answers, grinning, "You ain't seen nothing of her yet."

"I'm sure I haven't, Sir."

"I'm sure you haven't."

 

\---

 

"U-Day," he grumbles, wiping away blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He'd snarl, but it'd just start his lip bleeding again too. Bar fights in bad places on hick moons are always a mood booster, but it ain't lasting long enough this time.

"U-Day," Zoe agrees, darkly. She presses an ice pack to his eye so it don't swell shut. "I think it's gonna be a thing."

"Gorram sumbitch," he slurs, half-woozy from the punches and the whisky. Zoe don't pay much attention when he stands up. "Got some things need taking care of."

"Sir, if you get into another fight, I'll have to shoot you."

"If I get into another fight, I'd take it as a kindness."

He leaves Serenity again with most of his dignity intact, but it's something of a miracle. He finds more whisky and then exactly the kind of place he was looking for all along. Tattoo parlor don't look sterile at all, but Mal walks right on in, shouldering his way through the swinging doors, and starts to open up his trousers.

"You ain't my type, buddy," the guy behind the counter says, casually pointing a gun in Mal's direction. He's got arms the size of Mal's head, and Mal laughs, too used to staring down hard men in harder places be scared of this _hundan_.

"You ain't got nothing to worry 'bout from me, big boy." Mal grins, even though it tugs hard at his lip. He twists and gestures at his hip. "You fix this?"

"Depends," the guy answers, gun still on the counter, still in his hand. Mal thinks very seriously about shooting him, but there's things need doing and his gun is in his holster somewhere 'round his ankles. "What you want done?"

"Ever seen a Firefly? The ship, not the bug."

"You got a picture?" The guy grunts and it feels like the whole building shakes.

"You got access to the Cortex?"

"Cost you extra."

As though that's a shock. Mal snorts, best he can with his nose being like it is. "Fine by me."

It don't take long, after that. He watches the as the arms of the cross turn into the thrusters of Serenity, as Serenity's curves come through. It hurts like hell.

"Ain't there something in the good book 'bout false idols?" the guy asks, mostly just to goad Mal into something, and Mal _knows_, but he ain't about to back down.

"Good book says a lot of things," he answers. "Don't mean they ain't all false idols anyhow."

 

\---

 

He don't know how it happens, but he's got crew. Got a criminal and a mechanic and a companion and a doctor and a crazy girl and a shepherd, and most of them is just extras. He don't need 'em but they're his anyhow.

Like family, if you don't really like your family that much most of the time. Always trouble and only mostly worth it.

"And this boy says to me, 'But, Shepherd, how do I know? Where is my path? What if this is the wrong way?' And the only answer I have is to tell him, 'You have to have _faith_, you've got to believe. If God is with us, no man can stand against us. Even if you don't end up where you wanted, you'll end up where you belong, if you just keep on trying.' Course, then the boy walked off, tripped over his feet, hit his head and forgot the whole thing."

The whole table laughs, even Mal, his shoulders tense with words he don't care to remember so well. And Serenity hums, hymns like his momma used to sing.

"Amen," the Shepherd says, loudly, onto another story already. He sways with the force of the word and claps his hands. "Amen, _amen_."


End file.
